Flame Across the Land Read online

  ‘Howdy,’ Seaton said. ‘Are you Marshal Braithwaite?’

  The man looked him up and down before putting his cup down on the table. ‘Who’s askin’?’ he said.

  ‘The name’s Seaton, but it don’t signify.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

  ‘I can see you’re a busy man, so I don’t want to take up any of your time. I’m lookin’ for some kind of sheepherders’ association. I figured you might be the person to ask.’

  At his statement the marshal’s expression darkened. ‘This is cattle country,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe so, but there’s room for everybody.’

  ‘Folk have been runnin’ cattle a long time. They don’t take too kindly to strangers comin’ in and spoilin’ the land.’

  ‘Things change. Live and let live is what I say.’

  ‘And not gettin’ mixed up in somethin’ that ain’t any of your business is what I say. Who are you anyway?’

  ‘I told you. My name’s Seaton.’

  ‘That ain’t what I mean. Maybe you’d better tell me just what you’re doin’ in town.’

  ‘Like I say, I got business with the sheepmen’s association. If you can’t help me, that’s fine.’

  He made a move towards the door when the marshal suddenly got to his feet and came up beside him.

  ‘I’m keepin’ my eyes on you,’ he muttered. He glanced down at Seaton’s gun.

  ‘I could put you behind bars right now for carryin’ an offensive weapon,’ he said.

  ‘I ain’t the only one. Why don’t you take time to get out and take a look around?’

  ‘You’re pushin’ your luck.’

  ‘If there’s some kind of ordinance about wearin’ guns, I’ll obey it. If there’s not – well, I guess that’s just somethin’ else you’re gonna have to think about.’

  The marshal was standing partly in his way but Seaton brushed past and went out the door. After the rank gloom of the marshal’s office the daylight dazzled his eyes for a moment. He turned and began to walk down a street running parallel to the main street. Before he was out of sight he glanced back but there was no sign of Braithwaite. He hadn’t succeeded in finding the place he was looking for, but he had certainly learned something about the marshal.

  He carried on till he reached a run-down section of town with some weary looking stores and businesses lining the broken plank sidewalk, and was about to turn back when he noticed a low straggling building set back from the street. Although it was in a better condition than most of the other buildings, it bore the unmistakable air of being empty. What had really caught his attention, however, was the legend written across the wall: ‘Lindenberg and District Sheepmen’s Association’. Walking across to it, he tried the doorhandle but it was locked. He turned to the nearest window and peered inside. There was nothing unusual other than the fact that it was quite bare with just a few basic items of office furniture. A clock showed the correct time: 4.30 in the afternoon. The real thing missing was people. The place gave the impression of having been abandoned in a hurry; coffee cups stood on the tables. He stood observing the office for a few more moments, half expecting someone to appear, before turning away. On the opposite side of the street stood a carpentry shop and he made his way across.

  The man inside looked up with an expression of surprise when he came through the door, as if it was an unusual event. Seaton touched his hand to his hat.

  ‘Howdy,’ he said. The man nodded. ‘I was wonderin’ if you could give me some information concernin’ the office across the road.’

  ‘You mean the Sheepmen’s Association?’ the man replied.

  ‘Yup, that’s the one. I happen to have some business with ’em and I was kinda surprised to see the place closed up.’

  ‘You’re out of luck,’ the man replied. ‘You should have got here a few days earlier. You’ve just missed ’em. Or should I say you just missed him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The sign might have said Sheepmen’s Association, but I never saw more than but one man. I figured he must be kinda like the advance guard. I would have introduced myself, but I got the impression he wanted to keep himself to himself.’

  ‘Any reason you can think of why it closed?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Maybe it just didn’t work out. Maybe it was temporary. When I saw the man leavin’ with Marshal Braithwaite, I figured it must be some sort of legal thing he was sortin’ out.’

  ‘What? The last time you saw him, he was with Marshal Braithwaite?’

  ‘Yeah. I thought he’d be right back, but I ain’t seen him since.’

  ‘You didn’t notice anythin’ else unusual goin’ on? About the time the place closed?’

  The man thought for a moment. ‘Nope,’ he replied. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No particular reason, though I gather that sheepmen ain’t too popular around these parts.’

  The man shrugged. ‘I guess not. I don’t get involved. I got worries enough tryin’ to keep this place goin’.’ Seaton turned and made his way to the door.

  ‘Thanks for the information,’ he said.

  He stepped outside and continued walking down the street away from the marshal’s office, thinking over what the man in the carpenter’s shop had said. His first thought was that the closure of the Sheepmen’s Association seemed to coincide with the latest attack on the oldster. He was puzzled by the marshal’s involvement in the affair, and was tempted for a moment to turn round and make his way back to his office, but then thought better of it. The reception he had received from Braithwaite definitely discouraged any further contact, for the present at any rate; he didn’t want to take the risk of ending up behind bars. One thing was for sure; there seemed to be a lot more going on than met the eye. The only solid fact he possessed was the involvement of the Lazy Ladder in the attacks on Utah, and when he reflected on it he felt the same pang of regret that Maisie Montgomery should be incriminated in any way. There was surely no way she could personally know anything, but it jarred that there could be any suggestion of her being even faintly touched by the affair. He was feeling quite confused by his thoughts and the feelings they evoked when he turned a corner and after a few more paces emerged back on First Street.

  He was at the opposite end from that which opened on to the square where the marshal had his office. Just a little way further on the street began to peter out and merge into the rolling plain that stretched to the hills, shimmering blue in the distance. He paused to look up and down the main drag. Lindenberg was a fairly nondescript little town, existing chiefly to supply the neighbouring ranches and homesteads. It was like a number of other places he had passed through and he had no desire to stay longer than he needed to. He had become embroiled in something but once it was dealt with there would be nothing to detain him. Then his thoughts once again began to stray to Maisie Montgomery and he couldn’t help feeling a quickening of the pulse at the thought he might see her again the following day.

  Chapter Three

  Utah Red had no intention of staying long at Seaton’s old campsite. While it was still dark, as soon as he had eaten a meagre breakfast, he took his old Paterson rifle and filled his pocket with cartridges. From its scabbard he drew a knife and carefully ran his finger along the edge before replacing it. Then he limped over to where the skewbald was tethered, climbed on to its back and headed away from the stream towards Lindenberg. The town was not his destination, however, for when he had covered maybe a quarter of the distance he turned the horse on to a side trail which he guessed would lead him in the general direction of the Lazy Ladder. Occasionally he muttered a few words of encouragement as the pinto plodded steadily on, but otherwise his lips were drawn tight and his lined features were set in an attitude of grim concentration. He had one intention: to find the men who had killed his sheep. It didn’t matter that he had only seen them briefly and in semi-darkness. He had a firm conviction that if he saw them he would recognize them. It was an intuition an
d he trusted it.

  In the scramble to escape from the intruders when they had ridden into his camp, he had caused further damage to his leg. It was hurting quite badly but he scarcely noticed it. As he rode he thought about Seaton. He had lied when he told Seaton that he hadn’t heard of the Lazy Ladder. He had been around Lindenberg long enough to have learned something about most of the ranches in the area, including the Lazy Ladder. After all Seaton had done for him, he felt quite bad about it. Maybe he should have stuck with Seaton. After all, he had said himself that he was involved, that Utah’s problem had become his problem too. But what did that mean? Their paths had crossed before, and he thought he knew what kind of a man Seaton was. A hard man but a good one. Maybe Seaton was out for justice, but it wasn’t justice he wanted; it was revenge.

  The day was getting hot and he brought the skewbald to a halt by a trickling stream in order to let it drink. He swallowed a few mouthfuls himself from his water bottle before taking the time to examine the ground nearby, in the hope of finding any traces of the men who had killed his sheep. There were indeed indications of horsemen having ridden that way, but they could have been left by anybody. It was a long shot. No doubt there were various trails leading to and from the Lazy Ladder. Realizing the futility of what he was doing, he returned to the horse and sat down beside it. For the first time he began to consider what he would do once he arrived at the Lazy Ladder. The truth was that he just didn’t know. He had set off with the sole idea of avenging his slaughtered sheep, but he hadn’t given any thought as to how he was to go about it. Now, when he was well on his way, it was necessary to form some sort of plan. He couldn’t just ride straight up to the ranch-house; if he did he would simply be giving his enemies the opportunity to do what they had failed to do when they attacked his camp. He had no doubts about the sort of reception he would be likely to receive. So what was the best way to go about things? He racked his brains, but he was in a quandary and thinking wasn’t his forte. In the end he came to only one decision, which was that it might be sensible to wait for nightfall before arriving at the Lazy Ladder. Other than that, he gave up, trusting that something would come up. Stretching out on the grass, he lay back to rest while the sun continued its journey down the sky.

  He must have dozed, because when he awoke the shadows of evening were already spreading. His head felt muggy so he went to the stream and doused it with water. Then he let the skewbald drink again before refilling his water bottle. Finally he climbed back into the saddle and continued riding as the darkness gathered and the constellations hung like bracelets in the sky. Although it was night, he could see quite clearly what lay around him. The landscape was suffused by a silvery glow and landmarks such as trees and rocks were eerily distinct, while the hills he had left behind were etched sharply against the sky. He wasn’t too sure just where he was in relation to the Lazy Ladder but he began to be more watchful while his ears were attuned to catch any sounds carried on the still night air. Once he thought he heard something, faint and far away, which vaguely suggested the snicker of a horse, but it wasn’t repeated and he discounted it.

  Presently his eyes discerned a few shadowy shapes, as if the darkness had thickened into something tangible; he felt suddenly nervous and it was only as he got closer that he relaxed when he saw they were the forms of cattle. Some stood singly, some lay in small groups, and he realized he must have arrived on Lazy Ladder rangeland. This was confirmed when he passed close by a dilapidated structure which he was pretty sure must have served as a line camp. He carried on riding, thinking about what he should do next, and hadn’t gone very much further when he heard the faint but unmistakable sound of hoofs and then saw something move. He strained his eyes but couldn’t distinguish anything. He had almost concluded that he must have been mistaken when, turning his head in a different direction, he saw the faint but unmistakable outlines of horses that were almost indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness. As quickly as his damaged leg allowed, he got down from the skewbald and drew it into the shelter of a nearby bush. He peered out but it took him a few moments to perceive the figures again. There seemed to be four riders, riding two by two with something dark in between them. For a moment he was puzzled till the group turned and he could see more clearly that the dark mass was a small group of longhorns and he understood the situation. The riders were herding the cattle and the fact they were doing so by cover of night could only mean that they were rustlers. They were probably too intent on what they were doing to notice his presence, even without the cover provided by the bush. He would have drawn his Paterson from its scabbard, but didn’t want to do anything which might make the horse snicker. That was the thing he feared as he watched the scene unfold. The figures of the rustlers continued to move, at that distance appearing to do so slowly, until to Utah’s relief they gradually disappeared from sight. For a while he remained where he was, listening to the fading echoes of their hoof beats in the night. When he was satisfied that they had gone and were unlikely to return, he emerged from cover, and getting on the pinto’s back, rode it to where he had seen the rustlers.

  He was unsure and slightly disoriented. If the Lazy Ladder was the outfit behind the attack on him and his sheep, what should his attitude be to what he had seen? He didn’t like rustlers, but then it was his enemy’s cattle that had been rustled. The rustlers had only done what the Lazy Ladder had done to him. On the principle that my enemy’s enemy is my friend, he ought to be on their side. He was curious about who they might be and hoped he might pick up some clue to their identity, but it was a pointless task looking for clues in the dark. He was wondering what his next move should be when he recalled the deserted shack he had passed a little earlier. It would do as a shelter for the night. His afternoon nap had only served to make him more tired. In the morning he would be in a better position to make decisions as to how he should go about things. Turning the skewbald, he began to make his way back to the cabin.

  Seaton ate a good breakfast on the morning following his encounter with the marshal and sat alone, drinking coffee. He was conscious of a certain reluctance to be on his way to the Lazy Ladder, and he was aware that it was because of Maisie Montgomery. It would have been so much simpler if she wasn’t involved. She was a complication, but why should she matter? He had only met her once. When the last guest had left the room, he finally got to his feet and made his way out of the hotel. Although it was early, the sun was already bright. It was only a short walk to the livery stables. The doors were standing open and he passed inside, pausing a moment while his eyes adjusted to the light. He looked around, expecting to see the ostler, but there was no sign of him.

  ‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Anybody there?’

  He waited a moment before calling out again, but there was no reply. A shaft of sunlight coming through the door fell on the ground and he looked down. The grimy floor bore the imprints of boots and it was clear they had been made recently. As he looked more closely, he saw a cigarette butt. He had learned to trust his instincts and they were telling him that something was not quite right.

  A shadow suddenly fell across the ray of light and he turned quickly, moving aside as he did so, as shots rang out from both before and behind him. They went whistling by, missing him by inches, as he squeezed the trigger of his own gun, aiming at a shadowy figure he saw standing in the doorway. His aim was good and he heard a groan as the man reeled and then fell. He sank to one knee in order to make himself less of a target as further shots rang out from somewhere in the depths of the stable. Aiming at the flashes of flame, he fired again in reply. The horses back there were stamping and rearing and, taking advantage of the confusion, he ran forwards, zigzagging across the open space and flinging himself behind a stanchion as further shots tore into the wood and sent a shower of shards flying into the air. He was in a dark corner of the stable and couldn’t see either man. The shooting had ceased and he was thinking that maybe they were trying to creep up on him when he heard someone running hard
towards the runway at the back of the livery stable.

  Instantly he moved away from his cover and began to follow but when he reached the open door the man had gone. At the back of the livery stable there was a corral and behind that some trees into which he had disappeared. He ran forward, risking the possibility of being fired at from the trees, but when he reached them he drew to a halt. There was no way of knowing which way the man had gone and he had a clear start. Instead, he turned and made his way back to the livery stable to see what had become of the other man. When he reached the entrance the man had gone but there was a clear trail of blood leading to an alley. He ran to it and had just turned into it when he was greeted by a couple of shots, one of which singed the material of his jacket. Realizing he was outlined against the sunlight behind him, he drew back and was considering whether to try again when away down the street he saw a group of figures coming towards him, among which he recognized the figure of the marshal. After his experience of the night before he didn’t like the idea of having to face questions, so he ran quickly back to the livery stable. His chestnut mare was standing in one of the stalls and he swiftly threw a saddle across her back. He led her out the back of the livery stable and into the trees. The wooded patch extended back further than he expected but presently emerged into open country, where he stopped to adjust the saddle and fasten the girths before climbing into leather.

  As he rode, he realized he had been lucky to come away with his skin intact. He had had a narrow escape, but who could his attackers be? There must be a connection with what had happened at Utah Red’s camp, but what was their motive? Was it some kind of revenge attack? If that was the case, the Lazy Ladder must be involved. But then, how did they know him? During the course of the gunfight at the oldster’s camp, they could have only caught a glimpse of him at best. Then the thought that they might have got the information from Utah Red himself occurred to him. If that was the case, what might they have done to the oldster? Not for the first time he felt guilty for letting Utah have his way.